Ashes to Ashes
by gwynhefar
Summary: "Come with me," is all Fury says when he meets them at the helicarrier, docked for repairs at SHIELD headquarters, after the Battle. After Loki has been handed over in Tesseract-powered cuffs, after schwarma, after Clint hadn't needed to ask, and Natasha hadn't needed to tell.
1. Chapter 1

"Come with me," is all Fury says when he meets them at the helicarrier, docked for repairs at SHIELD headquarters, after the Battle. After Loki has been handed over in Tesseract-powered cuffs, after schwarma, after Clint hadn't needed to ask, and Natasha hadn't needed to tell.

'_How many?_' hadn't been the real question, and Natasha's _'Don't'_ was answer enough.

"They've got him on life support," Fury says, as he leads the exhausted Avengers down a corridor in the damaged ship, "but there's no-" Fury stops and runs a calloused hand across his face, not quite quick enough to hide the tiny tremor.

"I didn't lie," Nick says, and Clint doesn't know the story but he can guess. Stark is uncharacteristically quiet, and Rogers is appropriately solemn. Clint spares a moment to hope that Phil actually got to meet his hero before . . . well, before whatever happened to put him here in this tiny room Nick has led them to, back in the forgotten corners of Medical where agents go when all that's left to do is say goodbye and wait.

Clint stands by the door with Nick and Natasha as the others take their turns. One by one they step up to Phil's bed, and step back a few moments later. Clint doesn't hear what they say - even Thor is quiet - and it's none of his business anyway. He pretends he doesn't see Stark wipe his eyes as he turns away.

Natasha goes last. She places one small hand on Phil's forehead and her lips go thin and white.

"I brought him back for you," she says quietly, the Black Widow checking in, reporting the success of the last mission he ever gave her. It makes Clint's gut churn with guilt for what he's about to do, knowing he won't have time to explain it to her. Tasha puts a supportive hand on his shoulder as she returns to his side, and Clint flicks a grateful glance her direction.

"Can I have some time?" he asks Nick, eyes never leaving the still figure on the bed. Nick nods.

"As long as you need," he says, kind and sympathetic like he rarely is. It's a long-standing joke among the upper echelons of SHIELD that Phil is the only agent higher than level 5 who _doesn't_ know how Clint feels about him. Nick and Natasha herd the others out the door, leaving Clint alone with the artificially-living body of the man he loves.

Clint walks over and sits on the edge of Phil's hospital bed. It's insane, what he's thinking of doing, and he knows it. Nothing but half-remembered fairy tales to even say it's possible and yet . . . The steady whoosh of the ventilator is too loud in Clint's ears and the only thing that makes any sense in this fucked up world is right there in front of him and so far out of reach.

Making sure his body hides the action from the camera in the corner Clint unsheathes one of the knives he keeps strapped to his thigh. He spares only a quick thought for the people on the other side of the door, who will see this and not understand.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to Phil, to Natasha and Nick and the others. And then in one quick, brutal movement he brings the knife up and slits his own throat.

A sharp wounded cry torn from Natasha's throat has the others whirling around just in time to see Clint fall, choking, on the bed atop Phil. The grainy security feed does nothing to mute the violent splash of blood on the wall, soaking the bed and its unresponsive occupant, pooling on the floor.

There's a mad dash for the door and Natasha knows it's pointless, Clint's action too fast, too efficient to do anything but watch as he dies but it doesn't keep her from being first into the room. Clint's body convulses once and stills.

Dimly she hears Fury's broken curse, Thor's choked off bellow of rage and denial, Tony's agonising moan. And then, as they stare in horror, small flames flicker to life around Clint's body, growing larger, brighter, until the entire bed is engulfed in a conflagration almost too bright to look at. Smaller tongues of fire erupt along the wall, the floor, the machines surrounding the bed, anything that was touched by Clint's blood.

As quickly as they erupted the flames die down, leaving behind only a thin patina of fine grey ash across the uncharred sheets.


	2. Chapter 2

This isn't the first time Phil Coulson has woken up after being pretty convinced he was never going to wake up again. It is the first time he's done so quite this comfortably, however. This is definitely _not_ SHIELD Medical.

Cataloging his surroundings is second nature by now. He's lying on something soft, he's warm, and most of all, he's in no pain, nor is he feeling the fuzziness that comes with heavy-duty painkillers.

Phil opens his eyes. He's lying in what appears to be a nest of pillows and there's a denim-clad thigh about six inches in front of his face. He rolls over and looks up to see Clint Barton sitting cross-legged next to him, staring down at his hands clasped in his lap. The last time Phil saw Clint it was through a security camera in Stuttgart. He should be scared to be here alone with a compromised agent, but the defeated posture is all Clint.

Phil sits up gingerly, still expecting a pain that never comes. Now vertical, Phil can see that the 'nest' is tucked into the corner of a maintenance shaft in what could be pretty much any office building but Phil is willing to bet he's in SHIELD Headquarters.

"Somehow I thought the afterlife would be a little less . . . industrial," Phil says. Clint makes a choked sound that is probably supposed to be a laugh. He still won't look at Phil.

"Barton, report," Phil says with a sigh.

"What's the last thing you remember, sir?" Clint asks, finally looking over at Phil, and there's something different about him. He looks almost . . . younger, somehow.

"I remember getting stabbed with a giant spear, actually. Which is surprising, since I seem to be sitting here without a scratch. And you look different." Clint flinches visibly at that. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but closes it again. Phil has never seen Clint lost for words before. Nothing about this situation makes sense.

"Barton, talk to me," Phil says, "because I'm coming up with a lot of crazy scenarios here. Are you even the Barton I know?" Clint laughs. It's a bitter sound.

"Yeah, I am. I'm me, you're you, I promise." Phil feels something tight within him relax.

"Loki?" Phil asks, because really, that should have been his first question but the whole not being dead thing has thrown him just a bit.

"Loki's secure. The Avengers kicked ass in your honor, sir," Clint says, with a tiny hint of a smile. "Natasha got him out of my head and we stopped the army he brought to invade New York. It was all very dramatic. And then we came back and Nick told us you . . . the doctors . . . there wasn't any hope and I just . . ."

"You just what, Clint?" Phil asks softly. Clint takes a deep breath and ducks his head between his shoulders in an instinctive gesture Phil has seen only a few times before - the natural inclination to protect the head from an expected blow. With the familiarity of long practice, Phil stamps down the urge to resurrect everyone who has ever hurt his agent and kill them all over again . . . slowly.

"I've been lying to you for years," Clint says finally, miserably. "I'm not . . . exactly . . . human. And I'm selfish, and I can't _do this_ without you, so I might have made you not exactly human too. And I'm sorry." Clint shakes his head violently, still speaking resolutely to the floor.

"No, I'm not sorry. I'm sorry that I'm not sorry. And now you'll probably hate me and you'll have every right. You _should_ hate me and I'm a selfish bastard because I'd rather you be alive and hating me than the alternative."

A part of Phil is calmly pointing out that he really should be focusing on the fact that he's apparently not _human_ anymore, but the much larger part of him wants nothing more than to gather Clint up in his arms and tell him, over and over again, that there is _nothing_ he could do to make Phil hate him because Phil _loves _Clint, has loved him for years, quietly, in the background, knowing that he's far too ordinary for someone as amazing as Clint and not caring if that makes him a pathetic old man with a crush because Clint deserves Phil's love even if he could never return it.

Or at least, that's what Phil'd thought, but now Clint is babbling about selfishness and needing Phil to be alive and there's hope there and Phil needs to get this whole 'not human' thing out of the way so they can focus on what's really important, which is Clint, and how it maybe sounds like Clint might love Phil too.

"Nothing you could ever do would make me hate you, Clint," Phil tells him fiercely, scooting closer so his knees are touching Clint's and reaching out one hand to rest on Clint's arm.

"This could," Clint insists, stubbornly.

"Then tell me," Phil says, "so I can prove you wrong. You said you're not human, and you made me not human too. So what are we, and why do you think I'll hate you for it?" Clint freezes, eyes closed, every muscle tense and waiting for the pain he's so sure is coming.

"I'm a Phoenix," Clint answers quietly. "I couldn't stand the idea of you dying so I made you immortal."


	3. Chapter 3

"Like you, right?" Phil asks, as the enormity of that sentence takes hold. "You made me immortal like you?" Because that's the most important thing. Living forever may not be all it's cracked up to be, and Phil's seen enough death and destruction to understand how immortality can just as easily be a curse as a blessing, but the most important thing is if he's going to live forever, that he doesn't have to do it _alone_.

"Yeah, like me," Clint mutters in a slightly scoffing tone, like he thinks that makes the whole situation worse, rather than better. Phil has to remind himself that Clint has been through hell the past few days, so of course his confidence is shot, because otherwise, he'd be getting annoyed at all the misery being projected his way.

"Will you look at me please, Clint?" Phil asks, keeping as much frustration out of his voice as he can. Clint looks up, startled, and he looks so lost Phil just wants to hold him and tell him it will all be fine, but he needs some answers first.

"Ok, let me see if I've got this right . . . You're not human, you're a Phoenix, although since you look like a human and not a giant firebird I'm going to assume that the myths I've read aren't entirely accurate?" Clint nods. Phil takes that as a sign to continue.

"_Do_ you turn into a giant firebird?" he asks, because inquiring minds want to know. Clint makes a small choking noise that seems to aspire to be a laugh someday and his eyes brighten just a tiny bit with amusement.

"No," he answers, shaking his head. "From what I was told, the term applies to the ability to be resurrected through fire, not to any specific physical form. The legends say that the firebirds were the first Phoenixes, and that some humans gained the ability later, but who knows if that's true or not." Clint shrugs.

"You were told? You weren't born a Phoenix?"

"That's actually a matter for debate. No one knows whether or not they're a Phoenix until they die and are reborn . . . or not. It's not like it comes with an instruction manual, and I've only met a handful of others. Some seem to think that you are born a Phoenix and others think you earn it somehow by having crappy life experiences." Clint shrugs again. "I've never heard of a Phoenix who had a happy childhood."

"So how did you make me one?" Phil asks, confused. Clint suddenly looks miserable again at the reminder, but Phil needs to understand the full situation before he can offer reassurances.

"I didn't really know if it would work," Clint answers softly. "If there'd be any other way . . ."

"I know," Phil assures him.

"It's actually something of a myth. There's this legend about a Phoenix who fell in love with a human. They both knew the Phoenix would live long after her lover died, but they thought they'd have a full human lifespan to be together. Instead, they were set upon by highwaymen when travelling one day. They were both mortally wounded, and the Phoenix used the last of her strength to crawl over to her lover so at least they could be together in his last moments.

"She died before her lover, who was still barely clinging to life when she burned. Because they were so closely entwined, the fire took them both and they were both reborn, and from that day on they lived happily ever after, together as Phoenixes."

"Wait, you were dying too?" Phil asks, horrified. Clint rubs the back of his neck nervously.

"Not at first," he says. "But we only burn after death, and if there was any truth to the legend I felt I had to try. So I, uh, killed myself." He cringes against Phil's reaction to that.

"What if it hadn't worked?" Phil asks, breathless with horror at the idea of Clint killing himself over him, even if it hadn't been permanent.

"Then you'd still be being kept alive on life support, and I'd wake up and have a lot of explaining to do," Clint says tightly. Phil acknowledges the point, and figures Clint still has some explaining to do to Natasha and Nick at the very least. That can wait. They're almost there. Just a few more questions. He takes a deep breath, putting the emotion of the last few minutes away for a moment.

"How does it work?" he asks, knowing Clint will understand that he means everything, Phoenix 101. Clint straightens, looking relieved to be back on a slightly less fraught topic.

"When a Phoenix dies, its body is consumed by tongues of fire. Phoenix fire doesn't burn anything other than the Phoenix itself - buildings, furnishing, even sheets on a bed are safe. The flames consume the body utterly. The Phoenix is then reconstituted in the nearest place they feel safe - and yes, that can be as nebulous as it sounds," Phil smiles a little at that. "I haven't died enough times to draw any conclusions about exactly what constitutes a 'safe place', although at the least I'm always out of immediate danger of attack or discovery." Phil nods at him to continue.

"When you're reborn, all current injuries are healed. Anything physically wrong with you the moment you died is fixed. Scars and such usually remain, as long as they're not themselves causing problems. Any kind of scarring that impairs movement is gone.

"You mentioned I looked different," Clint says and Phil jolts at the reminder, studying Clint intently.

"You do," he says. "You look younger." Clint nods.

"So do you," he says. "Being reborn sets you back to the last time you were fully fit with no damage from aging. For most men, that's around thirty-five or so." Phil's eyebrows raise into his - still - nonexistent hairline.

"I look like I'm thirty-five?" he asks, incredulously. Clint grins.

"Yeah, you kinda do. Of course, you always looked younger than you actually were, so it's not that noticeable. No new hair though," Clint says with a smirk, "in case you were hoping." Phil sighs.

"I lost most of my hair before I was thirty," he says resignedly. "It'd be too much to hope for that any of it came back."

"Anyway," Clint continues, "in between deaths you age normally, injure normally, and heal just as slowly as a normal human from anything non-lethal. Some Phoenixes deliberately kill themselves after any injury that takes longer than a day or two to heal, because they know it'll be gone when they resurrect. Of course, that makes it hard to keep quiet when you keep resetting back to full health and youth, so obviously I haven't done that unless I was going dark on a mission where no one would notice if I was injured and then suddenly healed."

"Belarus?" Phil asks in sudden realisation. Clint nods.

"Yeah. Bad thigh wound. Wouldn't have made it out on my own with it, and probably would have lost the leg."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing else concrete," Clint says. "It's not just injury - you'll resurrect if you die of poison or disease too, including old age. There's another legend, says if you live for a certain amount of time - I've heard 200 years, and 500, and even 1000 - that if you've lived past whatever arbitrary age, and you survive long enough for your organs to begin to shut down from nothing other than age and wear, that you'll actually die for good.

"But like I said, it's a legend. To be honest, I don't know if there's anything that can kill us for good." Clint sighs and looks down at his lap again. "Like I said - I'm selfish. And I'm sorry."

"Are you planning on leaving?" Phil asks, careful to keep his tone neutral. Clint looks startled.

"Not planning on it exactly. I mean, I did almost bring down the Helicarrier. Dunno what they're going to do with me for that," he says, attempting a nonchalant tone that is ruined by the pinched look on his face.

"That wasn't your fault," Phil says firmly. "Nick won't let any of that come back on you. And that's not what I meant. I was talking about the future. Were you planning on us going our separate ways for the rest of our apparently very long lives?"

"If that's what you want," Clint says, voice small. Phil is suddenly, blindingly angry.

"No, that's _not_ what I want," he nearly shouts. "You keep acting like you've done some sort of horrible thing to me and I should hate you for it. I don't hate you. You saved my life. Yeah, so that life's going to be a bit longer than I originally expected. I can handle that. I can handle that as long as I'm not alone. If I have you."

Clint is staring at Phil in shock, eyes bright.

"Phil . . . ." he breathes, and there's a lightness in his voice that Phil hasn't heard in a very long time.

"I was so afraid," Phil admits. "I didn't think we'd get you back. I was afraid we'd have to kill you - that _I _might be the one who had to do it and I didn't think I could. And the last thing I thought about when I was dying was that I'd never know. I'd never know if you were safe.

"I'm _glad_ you did what you did. I am so relieved that you're here, you're you, you're safe. That I'm here to see it. I don't care about anything else. I just want . . . I've wanted for _years_ . . . I want to be with you. For as long as you'll let me. Forever, which is apparently now not an exaggeration, if that's ok with you?" Phil snaps his mouth shut and holds his breath, a little appalled at the torrent of words he's just uttered, but determined to have his answer one way or another. Clint is watching him with desperate eyes.

"I . . . Are you _sure_?" he asks, voice cracking.

"For years, Clint," Phil answers, heart lifting in hope.

Clint's face cracks into a huge, beatific smile.

"I told you I was being selfish, didn't I?" he says with a smile, and Phil shuts him up with a kiss before he can say anything else.


End file.
